


Hold Fast

by italics_of_uncertainty



Series: Awkward Bros Are The Best Bros [2]
Category: Avengers (Comics), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bromance, Bromance to Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, Lab Bromance, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 16:43:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2628944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/italics_of_uncertainty/pseuds/italics_of_uncertainty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony isn't quite content to just leave things where they left off. So he invites Bruce up to the penthouse for coffee.</p><p>You don't actually need to read the other stories in the series to enjoy this one, I've just got them set up that way so that if you want to, you can read them in the right order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold Fast

Tony has been watching the video feed off and on for days now.

Bruce is in his lab, working out the details of some complex circuitry bit by bit, wandering back and forth between his notes and the model JARVIS is constructing for him in real time, and he has this look on his face like there’s something he can’t quite reach, even though he can almost see it in his mind’s eye, knows exactly what it is, but just can’t put words to it. Tony knows that look, knows that left to his own devices, Bruce isn’t going to come up for air for a while. He also knows Bruce probably isn’t thinking about last week at all.

It’s strange, to have to seek someone out like this; Tony is the center of his own universe, the world comes to him. Always has… _but if the mountain will not come to Tony Stark, Tony Stark is just going to have to go to the fucking mountain_. It makes him uncomfortable, and there’s that nagging voice in his head again, telling him this is a very bad idea, but he’s gotten pretty good at ignoring that voice over the years. _La la la, better things to do, things to invent, city to save, thank you please call again_. It’s awfully loud right now, though, an incessant soundtrack of rejection and failure, that voice just waiting to be proven right.

He exhales — he didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath — and switches on the intercom. “Hey. Banner.”

Bruce startles and looks up toward the camera, concentration completely shattered, and oh, yeah, Tony knows that look too. It’ll be hours, at best, before Bruce has managed to claw his way back into the center of his own thoughts. A momentary twinge of guilt threatens to make him apologize for interrupting, but then Bruce smiles, “Hi Tony.”

Everyone handles Bruce with kid gloves. They’re all terrified of the Other Guy, and even now, even after everything they’ve seen one another through, it’s still Rule Number One: Never. Startle. Dr. Banner.

Tony’s never cared much for rules, and he’s made a bit of a habit of breaking this one. It was just curiosity, an experiment of sorts at first, pushing a little further each time, testing that limit, waiting to see to see what would happen when he finally pushed too far — but in the last few weeks it’s gotten a lot more personal. He’s seen the sad look in Bruce’s eyes when people cringe, sometimes even literally tiptoe around him, acting like he’s some kind of dangerous invalid.

He sees himself in Bruce, sees what could have been, sees a man who pushed his own abilities to the limit and nearly died for it, maybe should have died for it. He sees how horribly wrong his own life could have gone with a little less luck, and every time he sees Bruce, that perpetual deer in the headlights look in his eyes, irrefutable evidence of just how victimized fate has left him, he knows. He knows there’s not much difference between them, that it’s nothing but luck. Nothing but a little bit of luck holding the line between good and bad. It makes him sick to think about.

Bruce doesn’t exactly enjoy being startled, but unlike everyone else, he seems to understand there’s a little more to it than just Tony Stark being an asshole again, and he almost, almost, seems to appreciate it. Except maybe when he’s working. He gives the camera a questioning shrug, as if to ask whether or not Tony’s actually got something to say, or if he really is just being an asshole again.

Tony closes his eyes, puts on his best gladhand-shitshow-confident voice, and smiles, even though there’s nobody to see him, “Coffee. My place. Ten minutes.”

Ordinarily when he invites someone up to his penthouse for coffee he means sex, but he’s not really sure what he means right now, just knows he’s not comfortable leaving things the way they did; Tony squeezing Bruce’s shoulder and Bruce sort of trailing his hand along Tony’s arm, neither of them willing to put themselves on the line, neither willing to actually say anything… and a lot of silence between then and now.

“Sure,” Bruce doesn’t sound entirely committed to the idea, and the way he’s glancing around at various notes he’s scribbled on whiteboards, it’s obvious he’s casting about for something to do, an excuse to say no, but now that he’s lost the thread of his thoughts he needs time to recharge before he dives back in, and he’s obviously coming up short for busywork. “Yeah… Sure,” he nods, and suddenly he seems a little more self-aware, “Let me just, uh, change my shirt?”

Bruce runs his hand through his hair, mussed as usual, and now that the muse is drawing back her veil, Tony can see he’s looking worn around the edges. There’s something like an empty space that’s been cleared in the middle of his workbench; he’s seen Bruce sitting down there and passing out for an hour or two at a time, but he wonders if he’s really slept at all since he put him to bed last week. Probably not. All things considered, Tony’s starting to understand why Pepper yells at him when he doesn’t leave his lab for weeks on end… and actually, no, he doesn’t want to think about that after all.

“You know where the place is,” he says, and switches off the intercom.

Tony Stark is a master bullshit artist. He’s almost never honest, not even with himself; even when he knows he’s lying, he usually tries to believe it anyway. It’s just easier. Sometimes, though, even he can’t sell a line, and he’s pretty sure Bruce isn’t going to show up. Which is why he’s just not thinking right now. No, he’s going to pour himself a drink instead. It’s expensive scotch, but he downs it in one go; cheers, whatever. He knows what it’s supposed to taste like. Mm, delicious!

The soothing warmth of a good scotch aside, he’s nervous, and he doesn’t want to think about that, certainly doesn’t want to think about why he’s pulling down coffee cups and putting a handful of green coffee beans in the little roaster he built from scratch a few years back. So he just stands there, watching the beans turn from green to a perfect deep caramel brown behind the glass. Which is ridiculous, because he perfected the roasting time for this shipment months ago, the timer is automatic, and there’s fresh coffee from Sunday. It’s better after it mellows. He knows that. And yet here he is. Minding goddamned coffee beans.

“Smells great in here.”

Tony jumps, he didn’t hear the elevator doors open, and when he turns around, Bruce is almost right behind him. __Fuck_. _

Bruce is smiling, looking around him at the roaster, “Clever.”

“Well,” Tony smiles. He’s pleased, but he tries to be modest, “Last time I was in the Blue Mountains, I got to know this farmer, and he puts in a lot of work; old bushes, organic, the whole nine yards...”

“You bought the plantation so you wouldn’t have to worry about ordering coffee, didn’t you?”

Tony wouldn’t really want to live in a world where he couldn’t do that sort of thing. “Obviously?”

Bruce laughs, “Billionaire.”

“Hippie.” Tony pulls out the scoop of beans, drops them in the grinder and waits, not looking until he’s measured out just the right amount, tamped down the filter. He pulls a double-shot by hand, sets the little cup onto a saucer and turns to grab a lemon twist.

“Mechanic,” Bruce calls while Tony isn’t looking.

“Ooh, low blow,” Tony says, feigning hurt as he hands Bruce the coffee.

Bruce takes a sip, “This is good,” he says, raising his cup. Other than the obvious, most of his career has been theoretical work; nobody really wants to build the sorts of things he comes up with, well, at least nobody did, not until recently, and he and Tony have developed a sort of good-natured feud about whether theoretical or practical science is the driving force of innovation.

They might use big words, but it’s a pissing contest at heart. “So, how’s that going, the widgets and wires?”

Tony is just pouring his own double into a larger cup, he tops it off with hot water and takes a sip, eyes closed. He exhales slowly, relaxing, and his voice is a little far away, “Do you really want to talk about work?”

“Not really,” Bruce looks down, away, anywhere but at Tony, “So…”

Tony walks around the counter, pats him on the shoulder, “Come on, let’s go sit down.”

Bruce follows him to the couch, and the moment he’s off his feet, he looks like he’s just about ready to pass out. He leans back, closing his eyes, “I am so tired.”

“You really don’t sleep for shit, do you?” Tony says, setting his coffee aside.

“No,” Bruce shakes his head, “I really don’t.”

“What, worried you’ll have a nightmare and wake up to find out it was real? Aliens invading New York and all that?” He’s trying to be light, trying to kid around a little, but it’s not easy. They both know all too well.

Bruce just nods.

“Yeah,” Tony says, rubbing the back of his neck, “I kinda know that feeling. I keep thinking I’m going to wake up and this,” he gestures, “Is all going to be a dream. That I’m going to wake up and find myself back in that godawful hole in the ground, dying.”

Bruce is almost studying him as he sips at his espresso, “Is that why you were just laying awake for so long?”

Tony gives him an appraising look, “You were out cold. How’d you know I was awake?”

Bruce bites back a yawn, “Not sure, really? I don’t think the Other Guy sleeps.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah.”

Tony is stroking his goatee, wondering if that makes Bruce more or less dangerous to be around when he’s asleep, and he’s leaning toward less, because if the Other Guy’s already watching, at least he doesn’t have to worry about surprising him.

“You know,” Bruce says, “You’re the only person who knows what I am, and…”

“Who,” Tony corrects him, “Who you are. Not what. Who.”

“Not really sure I’m comfortable with that, either.”

“So, what?” Tony shrugs, “Both of us, all it takes is a bad day, and we’re public enemy number one.” He taps his arc reactor, “Ever bothered to do the math on the kind of crater this little darling could make out of Manhattan?”

“Twice, actually.” Bruce smirks a little and shakes his head, “Didn’t believe it the first time around.”

Tony laughs, “So, yeah. Fuck ‘em.”

Bruce has finished his espresso, and he sets it on the side table, “Look, I…”

“Stay,” Tony hears himself, but it seems like a good idea, so he goes with it, “Stay. You’re exhausted. Sleep it off, get some rest, whatever you’re working on, it’ll still be there when you wake up.”

Bruce looks like he’s not convinced, and Tony is already starting to hate himself, but then Bruce says, “That’d be nice,” and suddenly there’s this strange sort of fond warmth in his chest; he’s actually happy when Bruce says, “If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” he says, smiling despite himself, “I want you to,” and he’s almost surprised, because he actually means it. Bruce smiles then. Really smiles. The sort of smile Tony hasn’t seen more than once or twice in the entire time he’s known him.

“Come on,” Tony says, gesturing for Bruce to lean against him, and Bruce moves closer, but he’s still fairly far away. Tony leans over and drags him close, “…impossible.”

Bruce laughs, leaning his head on Tony’s shoulder, “Not impossible, just highly improbable.”

“How about incredible, then?”

“Let’s go with that.”

Tony brings up a screen with the day’s news on it and starts paging through absently, not really even reading the headlines, just trying to seem nonchalant, as if he lets people settle in to have a little nap on his shoulder every day, and it even almost works, for a little while, until Bruce says, “Do you ever feel so sad that all you can think about is fucking?”

Tony’s breath catches in his throat, because, __yeah__. He knows that feeling exactly. He’s felt that way a lot more often than he’d ever admit to anyone. Sometimes there just isn’t enough sex in the world to fill that aching void where it feels like his soul might have been, and he wants to say that, but all he can manage is, “…yeah.”

“…yeah,” Bruce says, looking away, dragging his hand across his face the way he does when he doesn’t know what to say. He’s shifting like he’s about to get up, but Tony catches him by the hand, and his voice drops to a whisper, “Bruce, just… Stay.”

Bruce relaxes a little to hear his name, but he doesn’t settle, and after a deep breath, he shifts again, closing his eyes and leaning in slowly, giving Tony more than ample time to pull back. Tony recognizes a Hail-Mary play for rejection when he sees one; he’s made his fair share of them over the years, and he meets Bruce halfway, closing his eyes as their lips press together.

Bruce startles when he realizes Tony isn’t going to shove him away, and he draws a shuddering, unsure breath, as if now that it’s happening, he’s almost not sure he wants to go through with it.

Tony licks at Bruce’s mouth, and Bruce makes this soft, needy sound. Tony is almost surprised at how ordinary it is to kiss him — maybe a little rougher around the edges, Bruce hasn’t shaved in a couple of days — but it’s also just like kissing anyone else for the first time; there’s that same awkward thrill, that same uncertainty, that same hesitation and occasional flash of wild courage — and for the brief moment when he manages to not think about it, he enjoys the softness of Bruce’s lips, the slick slide of Bruce’s tongue against his own. He follows that feeling, closing his eyes again and slipping his hand under Bruce’s shirt, dragging his hand along lean ribs.

Bruce whines, wanting and afraid and conflicted, but Tony doesn’t pull back, he just drags his teeth along Bruce’s jaw as he whispers, “If you wanted someone to say ‘no, not now, not ever,’ you should’ve made a pass at someone with morals.”

Bruce almost laughs, but he puts his hand over Tony’s, “It’s not going to change anything, though.”

“No,” Tony says, letting his hand rest on Bruce’s hip, slipping his fingers beneath the band of those ill-fitting trousers, “It won’t.” Bruce shifts, clearly wanting to be touched, and so Tony thumbs open the button on Bruce’s trousers, “But what does that matter?”

“Doesn’t matter, I guess…” Bruce sighs, “Not much does these days.”

“That’s the spirit,” Tony pulls him a little closer, shifting until Bruce leans his head against Tony’s shoulder, closing his eyes. Tony threads his fingers through Bruce’s hair. It’s softer than he expected, oily, unwashed, but soft nonetheless, and Tony notices then that Bruce smells good; not good like hair product or perfume, not good like a one night stand smells good, not like easy sex and forgetting, just… good.

“Aren’t you afraid of me?” Bruce asks almost absently, as if it’s only a theoretical question now.

“Would you believe me if I said no?”

The truth is, Tony is a little afraid, but he’s also pretty sure that Bruce has been systematically ruining every chance he’s had at human closeness for the last decade or so now — and Tony isn’t exactly sure when it was he started caring, but he’ll be damned if he’s going to let this slip through his hands. Maybe most of the time sex is the easiest way to wreck a friendship, and Tony has an excellent track record of ruining friendships, of being completely tone-deaf to humanity, but even he can see that Bruce just needs to feel human for a while. So far as he figures, being human is overrated, but there’s not a whole lot more humanizing than touch, intimacy, sex. He’ll worry about the consequences later. He holds Bruce close, and slips his hand down the front of Bruce’s trousers.

Bruce’s breath catches in his throat as Tony’s hand brushes across his cock, “Oh fuck… I haven’t…”

“It’s alright,” Tony says, and somehow, it is. He doesn’t know why or how it is, but it is.

Tony takes him in hand, dragging his thumb across the head of his cock. Bruce is still mostly soft, and Tony squeezes gently, drawing a quiet little moan out of him. Tony knows his hands aren’t very smooth, but Bruce doesn’t seem to mind, because he arches his hips a bit so that Tony can reach further, can slip his hand between Bruce’s legs and caress him. Bruce makes a soft, wanting sound, and Tony nuzzles at Bruce’s hair, licks along the shell of his ear, “What do you think of, when you touch yourself?”

Bruce shivers, “I just… Nothing…”

Tony drags his teeth along Bruce’s ear, suckling softly, “Just sensation, mm?” Bruce’s breathing is a little more labored, he’s hard now, and Tony starts stroking him, a slow, steady rhythm. Bruce turns his head, rubbing his cheek against Tony’s shoulder, and Tony licks along the tendon in Bruce’s neck, biting gently, “Nothing but that ache, the way it builds until you can hardly stand it…”

Bruce trembles, whimpering softly as Tony drags his palm across the head of his cock, slicking him with pre-come, teasing at him until he’s shivering — short sharp breaths — before he goes back to long, slow strokes.

Bruce moans, thrusting up against Tony’s hand.

“Dragging it out again and again,” Tony whispers, and he kisses at Bruce’s jaw, leans down so that he can almost reach the side of Bruce’s mouth. Bruce turns, shifts, and Tony pulls him close and kisses him deep, sucking at his tongue and licking at his mouth with each breath, each stroke. Bruce moans against his mouth, and Tony purrs, “…yes,” as he starts stroking him harder. His own breathing is heavy now; he can feel how close Bruce is, can feel how much he wants it, and that makes him want it too.

Bruce shudders and his breath catches in his throat; Tony knows he’s right at the edge, but he just trembles, biting back a desperate, frustrated little whine, and that’s when Tony sees the faintest flush of green along Bruce’s throat.

Bruce gasps, and he’s suddenly in a panic, shoving Tony aside and scrambling as far away as he can get in the space of a breath. When he looks back and sees Tony still there, his terror carries through in his voice, “Get out of here!”

If he were a little more concerned with his own safety, and a little less intrigued by the unusual, Tony’s first reaction would be to bolt, but he’s never had the strongest instinct towards self-preservation even at the best of times, and right now, in the face of a truly intriguing problem, it’s just not there at all. He looks at Bruce, really looks at him, searching out more green, the ripple of shifting muscle somewhere just below his collar, but there’s none to be seen. He’s almost disappointed, but he doesn’t want to be unseemly, so instead he asks, “What good is that going to do?”

Bruce stares at him like he’s just realized he’s trying to talk reason to a madman.

“I mean, seriously,” Tony shifts a little closer, “Even if I could get to the door in time, our mutual friend could tear right through that wall— which is solid concrete, I might add — and I’m pretty sure from there it would just be a matter of reaching in and ripping the elevator right out of the shaft… He could probably crack it open like a fucking egg…” Tony almost laughs, “I don’t really feel like ending my days as the gooey center of a steel box.” He shrugs, “I’d rather stay and see what happens.”

Bruce is horrified, drawing back as if to fold in on himself, as if he could somehow will himself out of existence, but Tony just keeps reaching out, slowly edging closer, “Either I trust you, you trust you, or we just say fuck it, head down to the lab and see if we can’t figure out some way to cut you down.” Bruce flinches at Tony’s touch, “But I don’t really think…”

It’s then that Bruce finally looks at Tony, really sees him; still there, not afraid.

Tony just pulls him into his arms, holding him close.

“I could have…” Bruce is exhausted, shivering as if he’s just seen his own ghost, and he sighs, burying his face in Tony’s collar. “I’m sorry…”

“Ssh,” Tony nuzzles at Bruce’s hair, kissing lightly along his hairline, “It’s alright.” Bruce trembles, but he doesn’t pull away, just clutches at him, struggling between turning away and holding on tight, closing his eyes against fear and something Tony can’t quite place.

Tony trails his fingers along Bruce’s jaw, drawing him into a gentle kiss, sucking at his lip as he slips his hand beneath Bruce’s collar, trailing his fingers along his throat. Bruce sighs softly, and it’s like he’s almost pulling Tony into him, the way he kisses him then; Bruce breathes him in and holds him close, and when Tony finally has to catch his breath, he feels more open, more exposed, more human than he has in a very long time. It stuns him slightly, and he’s already started to try and shake it off, but Bruce is reaching for him, pulling him into another kiss.

He slides his hand down Bruce’s stomach, pulling his shirt up to stroke bare skin. Bruce shivers and makes the most exquisite sound of need, so quiet and small, it makes Tony ache in ways he doesn’t entirely understand; his cock is half hard and his heart feels half broken, and somehow all it does is make him want, make him need. He kisses along Bruce’s jaw, enjoying the rasp of stubble against his cheek. He closes his eyes, and he can hear the catch in Bruce’s breathing as he slips his hand lower, feels the way he relaxes into his touch.

Bruce just sighs as Tony strokes him, eyes closed, a beatific pleasure washing across his features. Bruce isn’t achingly hard, but he responds to every little squeeze and shift in Tony’s stroke, and it doesn’t take much of that soft sighing and fluttering before Tony is uncomfortably turned on, wanting far more than he’s willing to take. He strokes Bruce slowly, gently, and not for the first time he envies Bruce’s self control, envies the way he can keep himself at arm’s length.

Bruce arches against him, moaning so softly it’s almost more of a sigh, a beautiful, soul-deep sigh and Tony squeezes gently, lengthening his stroke, not even trying to make him come, just wanting him to know he’s not alone, “I’ve got you.”

Bruce shudders and Tony feels him spilling into his hand, hot and wet, and Tony kisses him, swallowing that quiet moan. Bruce almost melts into Tony’s arms, pleasure and relief visibly washing over him in waves, and they stay that way, Bruce just basking in the afterglow, Tony both aching and unimaginably satiated, until eventually he shifts enough to get the handkerchief out of his pocket. He cleans Bruce up a bit, wipes his hand off as best he can, but the last of it he just smears across the hem of his shirt.

Bruce stretches and settles again, resting his head on Tony’s shoulder once more. Somehow it’s easier to act as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened, at least for the time being; doing anything else would involve talking, and neither of them particularly wants that, not right now. So, Tony brings his newsfeed up again, absently pages through the headlines, and soon enough Bruce has begun to nod off. He shifts in moments of half-consciousness, trying to get a little more comfortable, until he’s stretched out along the length of the couch with his head in Tony’s lap. It’s soothing; the warmth, the rise and fall of Bruce’s slow breathing, and Tony trails his fingers along Bruce’s neck, absently tracing patterns on his skin.

Bruce sighs in his sleep and shifts, nuzzling at Tony’s hip.

Tony leans his head back, closing his eyes, “You too, big guy… You too.”


End file.
